If Praetorus heard him, Arthur didn't stick around to find out; he ran back the way they had come, consumed with terror. Shoving aside any corpse that got in his way, he smashed right into one of the knights, which shoved him right back.

  The knight, still much more fresh than the other corpses, was apparently much stronger as a result, as it drew its sword and advanced on Arthur.

  He did something he never thought he'd do: he ran. He knocked over a skeletal corpse as he charged down a side tunnel, his heart still reeling with terror.

  What was wrong with him? He never backed down from a fight before, against a sword-wielding opponent no less; undead or not, he had cleaved his way past a dozen of their number before already, yet now he was seized with fear, wanting nothing more than to run as fast as his legs can carry him.

  His lungs burned as he kept running, his breath came in short, ragged gasps. He had to get out of there, he must-

  The next footfall found only emptiness, and before he knew it he was tumbling head over heels down a rocky ravine in the dark. He tried to shield his face from the fall, but the rocks hammered and cut at his arms and back; he only regained his sense of direction when he finally came to a stop on his back, face up on the rocky ground.

  Oddly enough, the bulk of the fear was gone. His heart was still sprinting in his chest, but it was more from exertion rather than the terror he had felt only moments before; what's more, the sense of dread was completely absent as well, replaced by one burning, nagging feeling: shame.

  He panted, taking in what had just happened; he had quit the field, against another knight no less, undead or not. The Braddock within him screamed at him: coward.

  He slapped himself, trying to snap out of it. What was wrong with me? He never ran from fights, yet here he was, belly up like a helpless turtle, tail between his legs; he was only thankful nobody else had been around to see him shame himself as such.

  Praetorus. His heart stopped; did the archer escape as well? Did the undead overwhelm him? Had the dragon killed him?

  Shame blossomed into disgrace; not only had he quit the field against another opponent, he had abandoned an ally. Henry's voice nagged at him: You're no knight.

  He needed to get back, see if Praetorus had escaped; groaning, he forced himself up, staggering to his feet as he ignored the aches and cuts on his arms and legs.

  A whistle of air to his left immediately triggered his instincts; he dodged and leapt back. A sword had cut through where he had stood, and its wielder advanced. Even in the darkness, he could see the bright colors of House Borodin on his attacker.

  Damn. They found me.

  His hand went to his belt, but found nothing; his sword was missing.

  No time; he grit his teeth, dodged the next swing, then closed in and grabbed his attacker's sword arm. "Come on, then!"

  To his surprise, his attacker yelped. Whoever it was, they were shorter than him, and he pressed his height advantage by pushing against their neck.

  His attacker dropped their sword, the weapon clattering to the ground; he felt a sharp pain as an armored fist pummeled his ribs. Even through his padded gambeson, the blow was hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs.

  He let go and doubled back, wheezing. His attacker delivered a savage kick to his leg, knocking him off-balance; as he stumbled and tried to regain his footing, his foe swung another punch.

  This time he caught the haymaker and forced the arm back around his attacker's neck, swinging it around into a self choke-hold as he pinned their arm against their back. Frustratingly, they immediately stomped on his foot, causing him to cry out in pain and release them.

  "Let's go! I'm ready!" A shrill voice, a female's, stunned him. As he hesitated, the same fist rushed out of the darkness and smashed square-on against his face.

  The realization hit him at the same instant the fist did; pain exploded across his face as he saw stars, staggering back from the force of the blow.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "Wait!" he cried out. "I'm not undead!"

  The figure froze as well. "W-what? Who are you?!"

  Arthur held up a hand, doubled over as he wheezed and panted heavily. "I'm a person, you idiot! Flesh and blood, like you!"

  "Me?! Idiot?!" The figure got in his face; close enough now, Arthur could see it was a teenage girl, hardly younger than him. She was wearing the same half-plate as the other Borodin knights he had seen, the gold-and-white tabard sporting the same insignia; her hair, dark blonde and twisted into a short braid, hung impassively down her back. "You're the one who kept attacking! I thought you were one of those buggers!"

  "Well, obviously not," Arthur snorted. He winced, the pain somewhat dulled now, but radiating across his face from the impact site. "You're one of the knights, aren't you?"

  She paused, then nodded. "Aye. Who are you?"

  "Arthur. Arthur Braddock." He glanced at her, expecting the customary followup reaction. "You know, of House Braddock."

  Her face remained impassive; for some reason, that alone almost knocked him down on his behind. She shrugged, her pauldrons clanking slightly. "Oh. I see."

  Arthur felt his face burn hotly. "And you are?"

  "Lyla. House Borodin." She sauntered away, picking up her sword from the rocks. "What are you doing in this forsaken hole?"

  "I'd ask you the same thing!"

  Lyla shot him a nasty look, lowering her sword. "Fine. Our chapter was questing here to hunt down a necromancer. Our search led us into this tomb, where we faced the undead."

  "Well, you're welcome." Arthur sniffed, thumbing his nose at her. "My friend and I managed to kill him. Lot of good it did, though. The undead are still awake."

  "That's the thing, you buffoon," she snapped. "This isn't the work of a simple necromancer! Were it so, the chapter wouldn't be gone, and I-" She stopped, biting her lip.

  Arthur waited impatiently. "And what? Out with it!"

  "Sod off." Lyla glared at him, before turning away. "They're all gone. Because of that damned dragon." She sniffled, her back to him. "We... we weren't counting on facing a dragon with so few of us. Had we known this was all because of a dragon, we would have..."

  She trailed off; Arthur could see her shoulders buckle, as she silently sobbed.

  "They're all gone... all of them..."

  He grimaced, feeling awkward and uncomfortable; this definitely wasn't his forte, and the discomfort grew with each second. He almost wished he was facing the dragon again.

  "I'm, uh... I'm sorry to hear that." He delicately approached, his hands held up. "Really, I am. Do... do you know if the knight-in-command survived?"

  "Not anymore." She still didn't face him. "I... I made sure of it."

  "Meaning?"

  Lyla didn't respond, but instead pointed with her sword a short distance away. Following her gesture, Arthur's eyes fell upon a limp form resting against the tunnel wall. It was clad in full plate, complete with the Borodin heraldry, but its head was missing; a short distance away, he spied an upturned armet helmet, still holding its former wearer with the visor opened.

  "Oh. Oh." He swallowed. "I'm... truly sorry."

  "Meaning you weren't before?" Lyla laughed bitterly. "He was my master, Sir Otis. Local chapter master and the leader of our failed quest."

  Arthur eyed the corpse briefly, before turning his gaze to Lyla's blade; it was stained red, still slick with blood from its last kill. Through the darkness, he could see Lyla trembling, her sword still gripped tightly in her hand.

  "What... happened?"

  "The dragon, you dolt." She finally turned to face him; her eyes were swollen and red, tears streaming freely down her cheeks. "The undead were no challenge. It was the damned dragon that killed all of us. An entire score of knights and men-at-arms, and we were decimated. Sir Otis was wounded. I carried him out of the fray here, where he succumbed to his wounds. I had to..." She cocked her head. "You still haven't answered my question. What are you doing here?"

  "I, uh..." he chuckled nervously.

  "Don't tell me you're a tomb robber." A menacing glint appeared in her eye as she turned her sword.

  "No, no! My friend and I, we uh..." he cleared his throat. "We came to kill the dragon."

  "Ah. You truly are an idiot." She sighed and sheathed her weapon. "Still, I'll take an idiot over an undead."

  "Idiot or not, we need to get out of here." Arthur glanced behind him. "Do you know another way out?"

  "Sure. Keep going past me for a few minutes, where you'll see another opening. Can't miss it." She crossed her arms. "I'm not going anywhere, though. I won't leave Sir Otis like this. I can't."

  Arthur shook his head. "Well, I'm not leaving you here, either." His mind stung as he thought of Praetorus, whom he abandoned with ease; this time though, he resolved not to repeat his sin. "Come on. You're not serving anyone by guarding his corpse."

  "I'm still serving him!" Lyla's enraged expression met him like a lanced charge. "Dead or alive, he's still my master!"

  "What, then? What's your plan from here?" Arthur crossed his arms. "Do you intend to stand here and guard him until you yourself are killed?"

  "If need be!" She suppressed a sob. "I-I should have died with everyone else! I don't deserve to live!"

  "Then how will you avenge him? How will you avenge everyone else if you're dead as well?" Arthur approached her, keeping his face steady. "I know another squire just like you. He lost his master, same as you."

  Lyla paused. Arthur continued, drawing nearer.

  "His master is dead, yet he refused to believe it. He clings to the Codex, thinking that's all he has left of him. And you know what? I was blind to it then. I didn't help him realize it, and it almost got us killed!" He held out his hand. "Come with me. If you die now, you're not dying for your master; you're dying for your pride."

  The female squire met eyes with him in the dark; they were confused, fearful, lost. Arthur held her gaze, feeling something entirely new within him: resolve. "Come with me."

  A long moment passed, before Lyla nodded. She took his hand, her armored gauntlet hard and cold against his skin. "O...okay. Alright."